A Contract Written In His Name

Chapter 3:ELARA’s POV

I signed my name at 7:42 a.m.

I made a point of checking the clock on his stark, minimalist wall. The seconds ticked by, loud in the silence. I needed to remember this. The exact moment I sold myself.

The contract was a beast. A ream of paper that smelled of expensive ink and impending doom. Clauses nested within clauses like legal Russian dolls, each one stripping away a little more of my autonomy. Appearance schedules. Media blackouts. Discretion clauses. Lucien sat across from me, a statue in a five-thousand-dollar suit, and let me read every word. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t rush me. His patience was the most terrifying part.

I pointed to a dense paragraph. “This says I need ‘prior express written authorization’ to speak to any journalist or… ‘Public-facing individual.’ That’s insane.”

He didn’t glance at the page. His eyes stayed on my face, a relentless, physical weight. “It limits exposure.”

“To whom?”

“To anyone who might use you to get to me.”

I finally looked up, meeting that impenetrable gaze. “You mean, to get to you.”

A slow blink. “There is no difference anymore, Elara.”

The finality of it stole my breath. I was no longer a separate entity. I was an extension of him. A liability to be managed. I kept reading, the words blurring into a haze of legalese and surrender. My fingers were blocks of ice by the time I reached the last page, the blank line screaming up at me.

“Sign.”

His voice was quiet. Absolute.

I picked up the pen. It was cold, heavy, a piece of sculpted metal that felt like a weapon. I pressed the tip to the paper. Elara Stone. My signature looked small. Neat. Pathetic beside the bold, arrogant s***h of his name already there.

I slid the document across the desk. He took it, examined my signature as if verifying a forgery, then pressed his thumb to a small, black scanner set into the wood. A soft, definitive chime echoed in the room.

“Congratulations,” he said, and the word was devoid of any warmth. “You’re my wife.”

Wife. The word was a collar. A brand. It hung in the air between us, ugly and real.

I stood, my legs trembling. “When will my father be released?”

He picked up his phone, his movements efficient. “Now.” He spoke into it, his voice cool and commanding. “The Stone account. Execute the release. Yes. Immediately.” He ended the call and looked at me. “He’ll be discharged within the hour. The narrative is a severe, but treatable, bacterial infection. He won’t remember the arrest. Just the… illness.”

A wave of dizziness hit me so hard I had to brace a hand on the desk. The relief was a physical ache, a loosening of a wire that had been pulled taut around my ribs for weeks. “Thank you,” I whispered, the words torn from me.

He studied me, his head tilted. “Don’t confuse gratitude with obligation.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You’re allowed to feel relief,”he interrupted, his tone softening a fraction. It was worse than his coldness. “Just don’t mistake it for debt. You owe me nothing beyond what’s in that document.”

The irony was a bitter pill. I owed him my entire life.

I didn’t go home. There was no ‘home’ anymore. Lucien’s driver—a silent, imposing man named Silas—ushered me into the back of a car so sleek it felt like sliding into a predator’s mouth.

We left the city behind. The bustling streets gave way to winding roads, then to towering, wrought-iron gates that swung open soundlessly. The estate unfolded like a dark fairy tale—manicured grounds, a modern monstrosity of glass and steel that somehow looked ancient in its power. The gates closed behind us with a final thud that echoed in my soul.

“This is temporary,” I said, more to myself than to him, as we walked to the entrance.

Lucien, a step ahead, glanced back. “No.”

The single syllable was a life sentence.

The inside was worse. It was breathtaking and utterly soulless. All sharp angles, cold surfaces, art that looked like mathematical equations. It wasn’t decorated; it was curated. Controlled. Like him.

A woman appeared, her posture perfect, her grey hair in a severe bun. Her eyes, however, were kind. “Mrs. Blackthorne,” she said, and I physically recoiled.

Lucien didn’t correct her. “Mara manages the household. She’ll see to your needs.”

“Your room is prepared,” Mara said, her voice gentle. “If you’ll follow me.”

“My room?” The question was out before I could stop it.

Lucien stopped, turning fully to face me. The ghost of something—amusement?—touched his mouth. “Did you expect to share mine?”

Heat flooded my cheeks. A confusing, humiliating rush. “I—no. Of course not.”

“You’ll have your own space,” he said, his gaze holding mine for a beat too long. “For now.”

For now. The words were a promise and a threat, coiled together.

Mara led me up a floating staircase to a wing that felt separate from the main house. The room she showed me to was… a surprise. Not the cold minimalism downstairs. It was smaller, warmer. Cream walls, a large bed with a duvet that looked like a cloud, a bookshelf already partially filled. It wasn’t personal, but it wasn’t hostile.

“Dinner is at seven,” Mara said. “Breakfast at eight. I will arrange a schedule for you. If you need anything—”

“I won’t,” I cut in, too quickly.

Her knowing smile was soft. “You will, dear. The first night is always the hardest.”

The door clicked shut, sealing me in my beautiful, gilded cage.

I sat on the edge of the bed, the reality crashing down. I was married. I was Mrs. Blackthorne. I felt a hysterical laugh bubble up and choked it back. I wasn’t a bride. I was a hostage with a diamond-clad chain.

Dinner was a study in solitary confinement. I sat at one end of a table long enough to land a plane on, picking at food that tasted like ash. Lucien didn’t come.

When I finally stood to flee to my room, Mara materialized, as if she’d been waiting. “Mr. Blackthorne has requested your presence in his study.”

Requested. The word was a joke. I followed her.

He was at the window, his back to me, jacket gone, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. The sight of his bare forearms—corded with muscle, dusted with dark hair—was strangely intimate. More intimate than the contract. This was a glimpse of the man beneath the armor, and it was dangerously compelling.

“You’re avoiding me,” I said, my voice sounding braver than I felt.

He didn’t turn. “I’m giving you space to process.”

“How generous.”

He finally faced me.In the dim light of the study, he looked less like a corporate titan and more like a restless king in his private domain. “You survived today. That deserves consideration.”

“You don’t get credit for basic decency.”

A faint,acknowledging tilt of his head. “Sit, Elara.”

I remained standing, crossing my arms over my chest. A pathetic shield. “What are the rules?”

He watched me for a moment, a flicker of what might have been approval in his eyes. “Direct. Good.” He moved to his desk, but didn’t sit. He loomed. “Rule one: you do not leave these grounds without notifying me.”

“Notifying? Or asking permission?”

“Notifying,”he said. “But if I say no, you comply.”

My jaw ached from clenching. “Rule two?”

“No media.Ever. Not a comment, not a background quote. You are a ghost online.”

“Rule three?”

“You do not meet with anyone alone without my prior knowledge.No strangers. No ‘old friends’ who suddenly reappear.”

“That’s insanely vague.”

“It’s intentionally comprehensive.”His gaze turned molten, locking onto mine. “My world has teeth, Elara. These rules are the muzzle.”

“And if I break one?” The challenge slipped out, born of sheer, desperate defiance.

He moved then. Not fast, but with a purposeful, panther-like grace that brought him within a foot of me. The air crackled, charged with his heat, his scent—sandalwood, iron, and something purely male. My breath hitched.

“We won’t test that,” he said, his voice a low vibration I felt in my bones. It wasn’t a shout. It was a fact. And the heat in his eyes… it wasn’t just anger. It was something darker, hungrier. It promised a punishment that felt, in that terrifying moment, like it could also be a reward.

I took an involuntary step back, my heart a wild drum.

“You said this wasn’t ownership,” I whispered.

“I control the risks,” he murmured, his eyes dropping to my lips for a heartbeat. “You control your reactions.”

“That’s not control. That’s survival.”

A slow, devastating smile touched his mouth. “Exactly.”

Sleep was a traitor. The house was a living creature of silence and hidden sounds. At 2 a.m., driven by a restlessness that felt like madness, I crept downstairs.

He was in the kitchen, a silhouette against the moonlight pouring through the wall of glass. A glass of water in his hand. He looked… unguarded. Humans. It was more disarming than any display of power.

“You shouldn’t be awake,” he said, without turning.

“Neither should you.”

A long pause. The refrigerator hummed.

“This isn’t what I imagined marriage would be,”I said, leaning against the cold marble counter, miles of space and unspoken tension between us.

He finally looked at me. A faint, rueful curve on his lips. “I doubt we share the same reference points.”

“Do you ever regret it?” The question fell into the quiet.

“Regret implies uncertainty.I don’t make uncertain decisions.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He set the glass down with a soft click. “No.”

The certainty was a physical blow. He didn’t regret a single second of destroying my life and reshaping it in his image.

“You don’t see me as a person,” I said, the words barely audible.

He moved then, crossing the kitchen until he was right in front of me. He didn’t touch me, but his proximity was a brand. “I see you, Elara ,” he breathed, his gaze tracing my face in the moonlight. “More clearly than anyone ever has. I see the strength you’re trying to hide. The fear you think is weakness. I see all of it.”

“Then why does it feel like I’m disappearing?”

His hand came up—not to touch me,but to hover near my cheek, the heat of his skin a whisper away. “Because you’re standing at the edge of a life you can’t control yet.”

“Yet?”

His eyes held mine, and in their depths, I saw a reflection of my own chaotic, terrifying fascination. “Everything adjusts.”

The moment stretched, thin and shimmering with dangerous potential. My body thrummed, leaning toward his heat even as my mind screamed to run. I was the one who broke, pulling back with a gasp.

“I want boundaries,” I said, my voice shaky. “Real ones.”

He nodded once, the intensity receding behind his usual mask, though his eyes still burned. “Then we’ll negotiate.”

I turned to flee, my blood singing.

“Elara.”

I stopped, but didn’t look back.

His voice was a soft caress in the dark. “You are not a prisoner. But you are not free.”

“I know,” I whispered.

Back in my room, my skin still buzzing from his nearness, I understood the true danger.

The contract hadn’t ended the war.

It had just moved the battlefield inside these walls.

And my enemy wasn’t a cold, unfeeling monster.

He was a man who looked at me like he wanted to devour me.

And the most terrifying part?

A secret, shameful part of me was starting to hunger for the taste of my own ruin.